Give Me A Texan

“You thought! What’s wrong with the old-fashioned philosophy that an employee learns their job responsibilities before they go off half-cocked?”

“Half-cocked?”

“Forget it. It’s a Texas thing.”

She bit her lower lip. “I owe you an apology.”

“It seems that’s all we do…apologize.” He set down a cold mug of coffee before her. “Here. Need sugar?”

“No, thanks.”

Quin pounced upon Monk’s perch like a bullfrog on a toadstool. Pulling out a page of newsprint, he wrote in bold block letters: DEADLINE. AMARILLO BY MORNING!

Holding up the paper, he said, “That’s a deadline. That’s our deadline. That’s your deadline.” He got up, stepped past her, and tacked the newsprint on the wall. “This is all I’m interested in. Not excuses. Not apologies. Not explanations.” He turned back toward her. “I need news, not a gossip column. Understand?”

Kaira nodded, looking up through a fringe of eyelashes like a grammar school girl being raked over the coals for misbehaving. “Perfectly.”

“You are an apprentice. That means you do the muck work. Clean typeface. Do what the editor asks you to do. Assist Monk and me.” He wagged a long, forceful finger at her. “You’re a printer’s devil-not a reporter!”

Hasn’t anybody ever told Quinten not to point? Deciding that some things are better left unsaid, she let disappointment seep in and muddy her thoughts. Quin’s words cut to the core. Not a reporter! Do dirty work? No lady she knew would perform such unsavory tasks unless they were the gardener or a stable hand. Rightfully, she should give him a piece of her mind. He had no right. Oh, but he did. Quin had every right but still she refused to be referred to as a devil-even a printer’s devil.

Although she’d like the opportunity to soft-soap the rugged, temperamental editor just a bit, no doubt he would not only be amenable to her catching the next train back to Boston, but would cart her trunks on his back to the station to make sure she didn’t miss her ride.

Time was ripe to make her move.

“I can see, Quinten, that there is no reason for us to continue our business relationship. I shall return to Boston on the next train.” She snatched up her caba, stood, and moved less than a foot toward the stairwell before he stepped in front of her.

“Oh but you aren’t, Miss Renaulde. This is exactly what your grandfather warned would happen. And I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking that I can’t handle a greenhorn petticoat.”

“You know nothing about my petticoats, and you can’t stop me.”

“Don’t think I can’t.” He moved toward the door, where he filled the frame with his rock-hard body. “Your grandfather ordered me to teach you the newspaper business. And, damn it, lady, that’s exactly what I intend to do. So sit back down.”

His words assaulted her ears. He meant business and she didn’t much like the look in those bold, chocolate eyes that seemed to dare her to challenge him. Screwing up her face, she plopped down.

“Since you dilly-dallied away enough time to make Monk have to clean the typeface for the next run, here is what I expect.” Quin folded thick arms across his chest. “First off, you do as I say, and willingly.” He relaxed his stance slightly and eased his mouth into a lazy smile.

She felt ambushed by his amusement. A smile that seemed to soften his features, even make the dark stubble on his jaw appealing. Too bad it didn’t improve his poor attitude.

Damn, now that her grandfather had intervened, she would be forced to stay in the land of drifters, dreamers, and dancehall girls. Kaira would much rather perfect the skills she had learned at finishing school, attend cotillions, and use the philosophies acquired at Boston College. Her game of crokinole needed some work, and she had become lax in her enunciation. Back East she could cultivate the ways of the wealthy and privileged and not be concerned with the mundane, day-to-day operation of a newspaper in some unsophisticated, dirty Texas town.

Quin’s voice startled her, sending a shiver up her spine. “Are you listening? I’ll say it again to make my position perfectly clear. Leave Mr. Masterson alone.” His gaze bore into her. “And since you’ve wasted most of the day and Monk and I still have to get typesetting done, I have no choice but to send you out again to find some news-”

“And where do you suggest I gather such information?”

“I’d think you would instinctively know the answer.”

“I’ve lived a very sheltered life.”

“Jeeze!” Obviously his patience had thinned, but he continued, “Look over the wires that came from the Dodge City Times.” He deposited a notebook on the table. “Surely there’s something more interesting than odoriferous muskmelons and the warty cucumbers.”

“Writing instrument, please,” she said with smug delight.

Quin selected a pencil from the cup on Monk’s desk, and placed it in front of her with a thud. “Here. Next go to the undertaker and see who passed. After that, check out the register at the Amarillo Hotel. See if anyone of importance-other than Masterson-is in town. I want something of substance, not who was seen chit-chatting with whom.” He placed both hands flat on the table. Leaning into her, the line of his mouth tightened a fraction more and his brown eyes seemed to magnetize her gaze to his. “And, one cardinal rule…no gossip.”

“But last week at Miss Maggie’s I overheard a conversation about two ranch owners meeting at the hotel-”

“No gossip.” He warned.

Kaira flipped open the notebook and wrote: No gossip. No odoriferous musk…” Excuse me. Are they mushmelons or muskmelons?”

Obviously exasperated, Quinten forced on his spectacles, opened the top draw of the cabinet, and began selecting uppercase typeface, avoiding eye contact. “That’s a reporter’s job to find out. It’s called research.”

“Then I’m a reporter?”

“You’re an apprentice.” He jerked his head up and sighed in disbelief.

Annoyed, Kaira rose to her feet, grabbed her handbag, scooped up the notebook, and returned the pencil to Monk’s holder. “I prefer my own, thank you.” She sashayed out the door, not able to resist throwing yet another barb into the mix, “Sounds like I’m a reporter to me.”

“Apprentice! Apprentice! Apprentice!” Quin’s words rattled the window panes.

Monk appeared from the storeroom. “Yep, sure did set that calico straight, son. Sure did.” Mumbling, he shook his head and limped to his workstation.

“If I wanted your opinion, old man, I’d ask for it.” Quin couldn’t help but laugh, knowing Monk paid as much heed to his sarcasm as he did to the old-timer’s grumbling. The duo was like a good ol’ pair of work gloves. A perfect fit. One would be useless without the other.

“You only have to put up with her for three months, son.”

“That’s ninety days-a fourth of the year…” Trailing off, Quin slipped on his cowhide apron and glasses and went to work.

“Less a week,” said Monk.

The chit-chat of the telegraph began in earnest. For more than an hour both men worked without muttering a word.

Suddenly, Monk broke the silence. “Yep, that’s one thousand nine hundred ninety-two hours.” He adjusted his sleeve-protectors and turned to Quin. “It’s either keep her here and get the newspaper out like her grandfather said, or kiss that bonus good-bye. Then you can forget restocking the ranch. Choice is yours, Quin.”

“I’m at wits end.” Quin pulled the visor from his head. “She’s so damn frustrating. I’ve tried to be patient, but it’s as if she is bound and determined to make me dislike her and send her packing. Come hell or high water, I’m not breaking the contract. That woman’s like a nest of hornets that keep buzzing around me and I can’t get them settled down. The worst part, I can’t seem to get her off my mind.” He absentmindedly rubbed his aching collarbone. “If she’s here she gets me all rattled, and if she’s gone I worry about her.”

“Yep, for sure. Been noticing that.”

“She’s gotten under my skin and I can’t shuck her.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try. Jest play the cards you’ve been dealt.” Monk shifted his weight and massaged his thigh. “But you’ve got to be powerfully patient with her. She’s like a bad rash that sure does hurt to scratch but feels mighty good when you’re through. You gotta make a newswoman out of her.”